


Accesso

by biocomp



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Alcohol, Colleagues to Lovers, M/M, Maestro/Pianist, connor is trans, everyone is human, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-07-27 18:03:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16224425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biocomp/pseuds/biocomp
Summary: Hank is a respected maestro working for Detroit’s orchestra.  Connor is a protégée pianist who doesn’t agree with his methods.Compromises have to be made.





	1. Andante

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve never written slow burn before, so be kind to me. Also, this isn’t going to be accurate at all, since I’ve never been a concert pianist or a maestro, but this is all for fun anyway, right?

He didn’t knock.

The door closed behind him with a decisive click. “I am not working with him.” Hank put his hands on his hips, pushing his rumpled blazer up over them. 

Amanda’s eyes jumped to him from the computer screen. Taking the glasses from her face, she folded them and gently set them on the desk, gesturing to the chair across from her with a raised palm. “Good afternoon, Hank. Have a seat.”

Hank did not sit. He folded his arms, pacing slowly as he spoke. “He keeps interrupting the orchestra. We can’t practice for more than five fucking minutes at a time.”

Amanda’s face was unreadable. It was always unreadable. “Who?”

“You know damn well who.” Hank stopped, pushing his hair out of his face and pointing at the door as if it had offended him, personally. “The little upstart you booked. The pianist.”

“Mr. Arkait,” Amanda’s voice was infuriatingly even, “is an esteemed musician with a sizable following. He is very busy and we are honored he has taken our offer to perform with us.”

“Mr. Arkait,” Hank parroted scathingly, “is an egotistical prick. I’m not working with him.”

Amanda steepled her fingers gently, her ever calm gaze locked with Hank’s. The clock on her desk ticked quietly as the two traded silent looks. “You act as though you have a choice, Hank.”

Hank clicked his tongue and leaned heavily against the back of the proffered chair. Amanda blinked, watching him struggle to come to peace with the current situation. “I could always ask Reed to take over if you believe it’s completely impossible.”

Hank’s eyes snapped back to her face, his own stoic. “Don’t insult me.”

Amanda shrugged gracefully. “I’m simply offering an alternative.”

“You’re insulting me.” Hank let his hand drag down the back of the chair as he stepped towards the door. “Just know, it’s not gonna be my fault if this is a clusterfuck.” He yanked it open, calling back into the dim room. “It’s his!”

The soles of his shoes hit the marble floor like gunshots, the sound echoing after Hank as he stalked down the hall away from Amanda’s office. Just his fucking luck. The year they give him Gershwin they also feature some conceptual jackass. He shouldered the door to the street open and dug into his chest pocket, pulling out a dented cigarette case. The sounds of downtown filled his ears as he leaned against the brick and lit one, inhaling desperately.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing the side of his thumb between his furrowed brows. Adapt. He was getting too old to adapt. The music was fine the way it was. It was cherished the way it was. If Gershwin had wanted it to sound different, he would have written it differently. Hank took another drag, folding his arms.

“Maestro?”

“Ah, fuck.” Hank murmured, exhaling around the words and struggling to keep from rolling his eyes. He tilted his head up, looking at Connor Arkait with dead eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

The man in front of him cocked his head slightly, his speckled brow creasing. A few strands of brown hair bobbed against his forehead with the motion. “What would you prefer I call you, then?” 

Hank looked him over, flicking the ash off his cigarette. He stood like a schoolboy about to give a book report, his perfectly crisp, collared shirt only enhancing the effect. “Don’t call me anything. Don’t talk to me.” Hank looked away, bringing the cigarette back to his lips.

“That will make our current arrangement quite difficult.” A car honked in the distance. Connor spoke again. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t.” Hank exhaled slowly, looking at the intruder pointedly through the haze.

Connor blinked at him, his mouth hanging open. He snapped his jaw shut, clearing his throat. He shifted the briefcase he held to his other hand, exhaling slowly. “I wanted to apologize.”

“Apologize,” Hank echoed, blinking slowly. His expression was sour enough to peel paint.

“Yes,” Connor nodded decisively, his unwavering eye contact a little off putting. “It seems as though I upset you during rehearsal, and--” 

“Upset me.” Hank interjected, standing up to his full height and tossing what was left of his cigarette to the side. “You didn’t upset me.”

Connor blinked at him again. “I thought that-”

“You disrespected me.” Hank growled, tapping Connor’s chest with his index finger. “You disrespected every musician in my orchestra. You wasted everyone’s time.”

Connor’s eyes narrowed a little at that. “I did not waste anyone’s time. I was simply suggesting that-”

“You are here to play piano, Arkait. Not make suggestions.” Hank leaned in close. “Is that perfectly clear?”

“With all due respect, Maestro,” Hank bristled. Connor gently brushed aside the fingers still pressed into his chest, his gaze surprisingly steady. “I am here because your director is specifically interested in my interpretation of the piece.”

It was Hank’s turn to blink. “Your interpretation.”

“Yes.” Connor straightened the hem of his shirt with his free hand, setting his jaw. “I understand that may be frustrating for you.”

“What’s frustrating,” Hank started, folding his arms. “Is when my rehearsal is interrupted every five minutes by one of your ‘interpretations.’”

“I can guarantee I will not interrupt rehearsal again.”

“Really.” Hank did not believe it for a second.

“Yes.” The chipper reply grated Hank. “Because you and I are going to meet privately to discuss my ‘interpretations.’”

Hank laughed in his face. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Would you rather I continue to voice my opinions during rehearsal?” The question sounded innocent, but the way Connor tilted his head and looked at Hank said otherwise.

Hank pushed his hair out of his face, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “No.” Definitely not. But spending time with this big-headed choir boy in his precious free time? That wasn’t what he wanted, either. Hank could feel Connor’s gaze on his face, analyzing as Hank mulled it over.

“Alright. Fine.” Hank snapped his head up, making Connor jump. “But we’re gonna have a couple guidelines.”

“Of course.” Connor nodded curtly, his expression serious. “Name your terms.”

Hank considered, watching the pianist carefully. “No sessions longer than an hour and a half. You only get three suggestions a session. Stop calling me Maestro.”

Connor raised a brow. “Five suggestions, and I buy you a beer at the end of each week.”

Hank tapped his foot, his arms tight around his chest. “Four, and you buy me a beer.”

Connor nodded his short little nod again, extending his hand. “Deal.”

Hank clapped his hand into Connors, gripping tightly. “Deal.”

 

-♭-

 

Rhapsody in Blue is a beautiful piece. It weaves and tumbles through octaves in a kind of organized chaos that reminded Hank of the complicated beauty of life. Not that Hank was ever open about that sentimental bullshit. It came with the territory. He’d studied music because it made him feel something with the most consistency of any other aspect of his miserable existence, but he didn’t like to talk about it.

Connor liked to talk about it too much, in a way that drained all the organic emotion out of the piece. He dissected the music down to its bare bones and picked them clean before putting them back together, building something else entirely. For the last fifteen minutes, they’d been arguing about one of Connor’s solos. Traditionally it sped up towards the end, but Connor was pushing against that.

They were far past the allotted four suggestions this session, and this was the third time this week Hank had let Connor jerk him around.

“Gershwin didn’t write it that way,” Hank repeated for the fifth time in as many minutes, “because it’s not supposed to be played that way.”

“It’s been played that way for the last 94 years,” Connor replied politely, hands folded gently on his lap. “I don’t think Gershwin would be opposed to a small deviation.”

“I don’t do deviations.” Hank folded his arms, staring down at Connor from his spot standing behind the bench. It was supposed to be intimidating, him leaning over Connor like this, but the younger man looked back at him with a frustrating amount of patience through thick framed glasses. 

“We’ll have to find a compromise, Mr. Anderson.”

Hank scowled at him, pushing his hair out of his face. “Don’t call me that. It makes me sound old.”

“You’re older than me.” He wasn’t wrong. “I’m trying to be respectful, and you told me I can’t call you Maestro, so—”

Hank rubbed at his eyes, then his forehead. “Just call me Hank.”

“Very well. I’m playing this section slower than Gershwin intended, Hank.”

Hank raised his hands and dropped them, exasperated beyond words. “If you wanna be ‘respectful’ then you’ll listen to what I’m fucking saying, Arkait.”

“I am listening,” Connor replied, blinking at the harshness of Hank’s tone. “But I don’t agree.”

“You said compromise,” Hank snapped, folding his arms again, his knuckles going white where he gripped his sleeves. “If you play this part how you want, you’re gonna have to play a different part how I want it.”

“That seems reasonable enough.” Connor’s own tone was even, but Hank could sense the trepidation beneath it. “How do you propose we decide where to compromise?”

“You have to decide which sections are the most important to you.” Hank shrugged, tapping his index finger against his bicep. “This isn’t the best of the solos, so I’ll budge on it.”

“The best..?” Connor looked at him with the first genuine confusion Hank had seen from him that day.

“Yeah,” Hank furrowed his brow, trying to keep from squinting. “Some of the solos are better than others. This one doesn’t mean as much.”

“Which one is superior in your opinion, then?” Connor turned back to the music spread along the back of the piano, shuffling through the sheets before handing them to Hank.

“What’s it matter to you?” Hank scoffed, taking the papers reluctantly. He flipped through them anyway, considering.

Connor shrugged, adjusting the frames on his nose. “Curiosity, mostly.” Something about his tone made Hank glance up, just for a moment. It wasn’t an obvious lie, but it was toeing the line.

“Curiosity.” Hank found the part he’d been looking for and reached over Connor to arrange it against the tray on the piano. “This one.” He could feel Connor looking up at him, the space between them small enough to feel the heat coming from each other’s forms until Hank leaned back, crossing his arms. Connor blinked at him owlishly before straightening his glasses and turning back to the keys, tilting his head at the sheet music.

“This one,” Connor murmured, almost too softly for Hank to hear it. He placed his fingers on the keys gently, slender wrists arched just so. He began to play, face impassive and posture perfect.

The notes were familiar to Hank, like the hand of an old friend resting on his shoulder. Connor played them perfectly, eyes roaming over the notes as his fingers translated, the tumbling octaves and glissandos pouring out of him like water. Hank followed along, trying to ignore the delicate motions of Connor’s digits, the shapes and curves of them as he played the complicated section flawlessly.

Connor reached the end of the solo and kept a single finger pressed on the last note, letting it fade out in the large hall. There was a moment of silence between them, the vibrations of the note still doing something in Hank’s stupid old body.

Finally, the younger man rubbed his wrist, massaging the tendons near the heel of his palm. “I understand. I quite like that one, myself.”

“So you’re not gonna try to fight me on it,” Hank asked, raising a brow.

“I didn’t say that.” Connor peeked over his shoulder at Hank, a small smile on his lips. It wasn’t malicious though, and the ghostly vibrations in Hank’s body grew stronger.

“Compromise, remember?” Hank said, clearing his throat. He pushed his hair out of his face, tugging a hair tie from his wrist to keep the strands back. “Play that other part slower, then, just make sure you blend back in when it counts.”

 

-♭-

 

Friday came shortly after, the weight of it heavy on Hank’s back. Cole was in the middle of preparing for his first college midterms and hadn’t reached out much, the walker had cancelled on him unexpectedly and he’d had to finagle a favor from his neighbor, and on top of regular rehearsals he’d been spending all this time with Arkait. At least he had a free beer to look forward to. Hopefully multiple. Maybe Connor would have enough empathy to see his pain and indulge him.

It was busy at Orchestra Hall today. The Russian Ballet had their opening performance that night and the ushers and decorators were already bustling about, organizing pamphlets and hanging colored lights from the trees planted in the large glass atrium. Hank wove around the chaos, his hands stuffed in his jacket and his head down. He was used to this, after all. When he’d first started working here he’d gawked a bit more, amazed by the speed and attention to detail. Now it was just white noise. He turned down a clean, white hallway, the noise from the atrium fading to a dull roar as he headed towards the rehearsal studios. 

Hank looked at his watch. He was fifteen minutes early, which was not a common occurrence. Private rehearsals were also not a common occurrence for him, but he supposed — albeit grudgingly — that they were becoming one. He dug his wallet out of his pocket, an old, scuffed up, black leather thing Cole had given him years ago, and pressed it to the keypad next to room 8. It beeped and he hauled the door open, stepping into the soundproof room and shrugging out of his jacket. The walls here were white, too, the carpet a rich red, only a piano, its bench, and a few black metal stools occupying the space. The studios were where Hank would hide to make calls when he was going through his divorce, but that felt like ages ago.

The piano was a black glistening monster of a thing, a top of the line grand tuned every couple months. Hank tossed his jacket over one of the stools and walked over to it, running his hand along the slick surface of the cover. He flipped it back and tapped a key idly, a low C, its vibrations rumbling comfortably through his body. He looked at his watch again. Still twelve minutes before Connor arrived. Hank sucked his teeth, deliberating.

He’d never excelled at piano, but he was more than familiar with it. Sitting down on the bench was like shaking hands with an old friend, one that wanted to tell you about its trip to Italy and the latest philosophy book it read. He tapped a few more keys absently, fiddling with the Sostenuto pedal to let an E flat linger and fade. Hank thought about Connor’s hands moving over these keys, how graceful and purposeful and confident they were. His own fingers looked large and clumsy in comparison. He tapped out a lazy version of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake Op 20, ring finger skidding on a note.

“Oh.”

Hank whipped around, catching Connor as he peered around the door. His cheeks were flushed from the morning chill, his hair mussed slightly over raised brows.

“What?” Hank looked at his watch. There was still a few minutes before they were supposed to begin. “That shocked I’m early?”

Connor slid the rest of the way into the room and closed the door behind him, unwinding his scarf slowly. “No.” He set it neatly on a stool and started unbuttoning his coat, watching his fingers work. “I’ve just never seen you actually sit at the piano before.”

“I can play the piano,” Hank said, disgruntled.

“Obviously.” Connor shrugged off his coat and hung it on the hook on the back of the door Hank hadn’t even noticed. “You’re a maestro. You can play almost anything, I’d believe.”

“You’re giving me too much credit, kid.”

Connor made a face at the nickname, walking over to sit on the bench next to Hank. Hank bristled at the closeness, at the way Connor’s thigh touched his own. “What were you playing?”

“Nothin’.”

Connor gave him a look, reaching into the pocket of his shirt to remove his glasses. Hank watched him unfold them purposefully, like always, and place them on his face. “It sounded like Tchaikovsky to me.”

“Maybe, but I can barely remember it without music.” Hank’s voice came out more of a grumble than he’d meant. He’d never admit it, but those glasses were… cute. Really cute.

Turning back to the piano, Connor slid his fingertips onto the keys and continued the piece Hank had basically barely started, fingers flowing easily and gracefully over the glossy surface. He looked up, catching Hank’s gaze with his own, his fingers never stopping. “You didn’t pick a concerto? One meant for the piano?”

“Like I said, you’re giving me way too much credit.” Hank grunted, locking his fingers together as Connor reached up the length of the keys to play in a higher octave. His arm pressed to Hank’s chest and Hank’s heart stuttered. He cleared his throat. “I like Tchaikovsky as much as the next guy, but I don’t have his music fuckin’ memorized.”

Connor hummed absently, fingers stopping abruptly. He pulled his arms back to rest his hands in his lap, eyes looking at the floor, away from Hank. “I suppose I’m biased. He is one of my favorites.”

“Well, we’re here for Gershwin.” Hank pulled himself from the bench, from Connor’s heat, and cleared his throat. Connor’s face looked up at him, expression carefully blank, his mouth hanging open just enough for Hank to see the glistening white of his bottom teeth. Hank struggled not to think about the soft, wet tongue hidden behind them. “We’re picking up at the third solo.”

-♭-

 

They ended up at Quarantine, a bougie place designed to have the charm of a dive. The walls were bare brick, lined with low-watt Edison bulbs and polished bronze fixtures. There was a loft with more seating and second-hand furniture. Hank guessed they called that shit “vintage” nowadays, but it was just economical. With rent downtown, something had to be. The place was warm as the door closed softly behind them, jazz music playing quietly over speakers tucked into dark corners. Quarantine was trendy. It was a date spot. Hank’s heart seized.

Hank hadn’t considered what it looked like until they stepped into the bar. Him and Connor drinking together. He was sure it had to look like father son bonding or some dating app hookup. They couldn’t look further from colleagues if they tried. Connor, on the other hand, seemed less aware of the potential misunderstanding, or at least less uncomfortable about it. Hank figured that was the naivety of being thirty-three and knowing nothing beyond the grind of a professional classical musician. The pianist leaned easily over the polished wood of the bar and ordered some local microbrew for himself with a practiced politeness that made Hank bristle.

“And you, Hank?” Connor was looking at him, tilting his head like he had when they’d made their deal Monday night. “Pick your poison.” His mouth curled up innocently at the corners, his cheek dimpling. Yellow light licked at the curve of his jaw.

Hank dragged his gaze from Connor’s face and snapped his head to the bartender, a woman with short blonde hair and an easy smile. “Bulleit Rye, neat.”

“You wanna start a tab?”

Hank opened his mouth, but Connor’s voice cut him off. “Yes. Please put his on mine.”

Hank’s entire body clenched under his coat and heat crawled up his neck. This was his fucking idea. He’d asked Connor to buy. What had he been thinking? Absolutely shit fucking nothing, obviously. Nah, he’d been thinking this would never happen. He’d been thinking things would explode after day one. But no. Here they were.

The bartender looked between them, her smile small and unassuming as she tipped the bottle of whiskey back onto its base. “Sure.” She slid their drinks across the counter, taking Connor’s card from between his fingers and turning away.

“Where shall we sit?” Connor’s tone was too congenial, too casual, slipping into Hank’s ears like a cat against his legs. Now that Hank had realized exactly what this looked like, he was having a hard time moving past it. Connor’s brows drew together slightly, his mouth turning down against the rim of his glass. “Maestro..?”

Hank turned on his heel, his glass a solid anchor as he gripped it and walked across the bar to a table directly under a light fixture. He wasn’t gonna hide in some corner and let people think this was something it wasn’t. He could hear Connor’s softer strides close behind him and he sat hard in the scuffed wooden chair, taking a large drink before setting his cup down, hard. “I told you,” Hank muttered, pressing a knuckle to the crease between his brows, “not to fucking call me that.”

“It got your attention, didn’t it?” Connor pulled out his chair, sitting gracefully and taking a small sip of his own. “Have I upset you?”

“No.” Hank leaned back in his seat, tapped the scratched surface of the table with the fingertips of his free hand. “Just got distracted.”

“Hm.” Connor took another sip, his gaze fixed on Hank’s face. He drew his lower lip into his mouth and licked it clean. “By what?”

Hank set his jaw and looked down at the light amber liquid in his glass. “Nothing important.” 

Connor hummed again, the pads of his thin fingers pressed to the clear surface of his cup. He looked over Hank’s shoulder, taking in the wall of vintage posters behind him. “I’ve never been here before.”

Hank grunted, tipping his drink and watching the ring of liquid tilt with the movements. “Been a couple times. One of my friends likes this place.”

The comment made Connor’s face light up, like he’d never considered Hank having a life outside work. Hank ignored it, instead shrugging out of his coat and slinging it against the back of the chair. Connor followed suit, opening his mouth despite Hank’s lame attempt to brush his curiosity aside. “What’s your friend’s name?”

The question made Hank huff out a laugh, his brows drawing together. “What’s it fuckin matter?” 

Connor’s face fell. Crumpled. He tried to correct it, to keep from looking too disappointed, but the damage was done. Hank felt like he’d punched the kid in the throat.

“His names Ben,” he grumbled, and Connor’s face lit up like it had before. “Went to highschool together. He’s a cop now, so we don’t see each other much.”

“Did you go to school in Detroit?” Connor asked, sipping his beer and tilting his head, one elbow leaning on the table. It was the most relaxed Hank had seen him, the worst his posture had ever been to Hank’s knowledge. 

“Yeah. Well. The suburbs, technically.” Hank picked at a thread at the side seam of his pants, tugging it. “What about you.”

Connor started at the question, like he’d forgotten Hank was capable of asking them. “I went to a school in Vermont. I graduated early… I didn’t have a lot of time for friends.” His eyes drifted skyward as he said it, pausing at each light fixture like he was counting them. “Graduated college early, too, and now I’m here.”

“Not a lot of time for anything other than piano, huh.”

“Nope.” Connor flicked his fingernail against his glass, letting his gaze snap back to Hank. The silence following the syllable was anything other than calm. It was a question itself. What had Hank had time for?

Hank sighed and downed the rest of his drink. “I fucked around a lot more than you did. Took longer getting to where I am now.” He pressed the toe of his shoe against the metal bar that held the table up, digging his heel into the cement floor. “Married a girl, had a kid. Got serious about music.” Got too serious about music. “Got divorced. Got my job at orchestra hall. And now you, Arkait, are stuck with me.” Hank raised his empty cup and tilted his head in a mock toast. Connor smiled and echoed his gesture.

“How old is your child?” Connor asked, and Hank shoved his chair back and stood up.

“Gonna need another one of these if we’re gonna talk about my fuckin’ kid all night,” Hank rumbled, shaking the empty tumbler and turning on his heel. “And it’s going on your tab.”

 

-♯-

Hank told him. He told Connor about Cole, about his college, about how smart he was and how he was going to be an engineer. Connor listened intently, finally out of beer by the time Hank finished.

“You want another one?” Hank asked, barely motioning toward it with a flick of his wrist.

Connor nodded, moving to stand, but Hank reached across the table and pressed his hand to Connor’s shoulder. It was big, warm, and Connor stared at it before remembering it was attached to a person.

“I got it.” Hank’s voice was gruff and soft, and the combination did something to Connor’s insides.

“Thanks.”

The pianist let him take the cup from his grasp and walk back towards the bar. The glass looked small in those giant hands. Connor thought about the way Hank’s thick fingers looked pressing down the keys of the piano in the rehearsal studio. He looked down at his own hands, his long, willowy fingers, and stretched them out against the surface of the table. 

What would his fingers look like intertwined with Hank’s? A small part of his brain asked. Would his grip reach around Hank’s bicep? His thigh?

Connor curled his fingers into fists. This train of thought was not appropriate. It was heading deep into places he didn’t usually allow himself access. ‘You’re repressed,’ his brother’s voice interjected. Connor could picture him tapping his watch. ‘You’re repressed and miserable.’

He was not miserable, Connor decided as Hank sat heavily across from him again. He was a making a friend. Sure, he’d basically had to rope Hank into this, but they’d had some personal conversation at this point. That’s more than he could say of any of his other directors.

“Thank you, Hank.” Connor offered him a small smile as he palmed the beer and brought it to his lips. He let his eyes linger on Hank’s face as he sipped, blinking slowly. Hank’s own eyes slid back down toward his own hand where it rested on the table.

His own large, powerful hand.

“Don’t mention it. You’re still paying, y’know.”

Connor laughed quietly, pleased when Hank’s own mouth jerked up at the side. “And I’m happy to.”

“Earlier,” Hank started, scratching his eyebrow before leaning forward on both elbows. “You said you didn’t have a lot of time to make friends. What about now?”

Connor’s smile faded. He tried to hide it by taking another sip. “I have a few. People I’ve worked with.”

“Those are colleagues.”

“Colleagues can be friends, can’t they?” Connor scoffed, keeping his face from twisting into a pout. “And I have a brother.”

“A brother, huh.” Hank’s brows raised at that. “What’s he like?”

“He’s a violinist.” Connor tapped the baseline from solo two against the table. Hank’s gaze moved to watch, darting back up when Connor began to speak again. “A year younger than me. He’s in Italy.”

Hank whistled lowly, leaning back in his chair again. “European circuit, huh.”

“He said he wanted to get away.” Connor let himself roll his eyes, his hand stilling against the wood. “He has an on-again-off-again situation with someone. Currently they’re Off.”

Hank chuckled. Connor’s eyes jerked back to his face, watched the genuine smile press into his cheeks, the sound of it curling warm and languid in Connor’s chest. Maybe that was the beer. He was a bit of a lightweight.

“But they’ll be on again, you think.”

Connor felt his own cheeks dent with an exhausted sort of smile. “They’re made for each other. They’ll meet on a gondola before the end of the month. Niles will write a piece about it, and then burn it on a hotel balcony in Spain by the end of the next.”

“Sounds like some foreign drama,” Hank chortled, drinking the last of his third whiskey. “Exhausting.”

“It’s exhausting keeping up with it,” Connor admitted, taking another sip. “But in a weird way, I think he’s happy.”

“What about you then?”

Connor tilted his head.

Hank sighed. “You got your own on-again-off-again person? Someone back in Vermont?”

“No.” The word came out heavier than Connor meant it to. Something about talking to Hank pulled genuine feelings out of him. He chalked it up to the bar, the sound of Sinatra crooning over the speakers, the warm yellow of the lights, the mild taste of his beer. “I’m too busy.”

“As long as you’re happy, I guess,” Hank snorted, the sentence delivered on a crooked smile. His eyes were warm. Connor had never seen his eyes so warm.

He took a large drink to cool his chest, but the liquid went hot inside him.

 

-♯-

Connor. Was drunk?

Hank was there. He was hot, he was extremely hot against Connor’s side, especially in comparison to the cold air. They were outside, walking. Connor could recognize the buildings around them. They were a few blocks from his rental. Hank’s body was wide enough that it was tricky for Connor to wrap his arm around him completely. He let his fingers tangle in the fabric of Hank’s coat.

“Is it up here?” Hank asked.

“Hm?” Connor looked up at him. Tried to. Things were a little off kilter.

“Your place, Connor.”

“Oh.” He squinted at the buildings again. “Yeah. Brown one.”

“They’re all sort of brown.”

“Brown one with the red door.”

Hank dragged him up the steps, and Connor heard the jingling of his keys. Strange, considering he wasn’t holding them or looking for them. Something glistened in Hank’s free hand. Connor realized the other was pressed against his hip.

“You’re holding me,” Connor said, his voice coming out half hysterical giggle. “Your hand is on my hip, Hank.”

“I know,” Hank said, finally slotting the key in and twisting the handle. They tumbled into the lobby. Connor’s feet weren’t working right. They dragged against the tiles until Hank hauled him up and got him resituated. “Which number?”

“2B. It’s… I’m on the second. The second floor.”

Hank hauled him toward the elevator, leaning Connor against the wall. The wall was cold and solid and it made the spinning in his head all the more obvious. Hank thumbed the button and Connor watched with parted lips. “You have big hands.”

“I heard you the first five times,” Hank grumbled, but there was a pink tinge to the shells of his ears. The elevator dinged and Hank gathered Connor up again, ushering him in. Connor felt something jolt in his stomach and doubled over, Hank catching him by his chest at the last second.

The feeling passed by the time the elevator dinged again, opening up to Connor’s floor. Hank pulled him upright with a surprising tenderness and dragged him down the hallway, shifting Connor’s keys in his hand as they approached his door.

“You’re really nice.”

Hank made a noise in his throat. “You’re really drunk. I should have stopped you after the third.”

Connor scoffed. Hank opened the door to his apartment and pulled him inside. “I’m not that drunk, Hank. I know your name. I know that you’ve been conducting for eighteen years. I know. That you smell really good.” He was deposited on his couch, shivered as Hank pulled off his coat and then vanished. Connor heard a door open and metal jangling and a door closing.

“Hank,” Connor mumbled before Hank’s shoes appeared in his line of sight and realized he’d been looking at the floor. He looked up slowly, smiling crookedly. “I like you.”

“You,” Hank said slowly, quietly, “are very drunk.”

“Sit down.” Connor patted the couch next to him. 

Hank sighed. “I have to go, Connor.”

“Sit down,” Connor demanded, pretty sure his face was not curling down into a pout. “Just for one minute.”

Hank sat heavily, his hands knotted together and elbows on his legs. “What.”

Connor leaned forward. Hank didn’t move, but his eyes stayed trained on Connor’s face.

“Hank,” Connor said again, voice low, his eyelids growing heavy. “I like you a lot. You’re nice to me, in a mean sort of way.” His face drifted closer, and Hank watched him, absolutely still. “I like it. I really like it.”

“Connor,” Hank’s voice was guarded.

“Hank.” The word came out slowly, drawn out, sing-songy. Ha a a a nk. The heat of his own breath filled the little space between his face and Hank’s. Hank’s beard looked soft. He wanted to feel it on his face. He let his cheek slide against it.

He was right. Soft.

His mouth drifted into Hank’s and he let it settle there, his hand pressed to Hank’s chest. Hank was warm, his brain said again. Warm good. He moved his mouth against Hank’s gently, feeling the smooth surface of his lips against his own, forgetting for a second where he was and who was there, and then Hank’s hand pressed cautiously to the nape of his neck and Hank’s mouth moved against his.

Good. That was really, really good.

Hank’s lips were barely rough from the cold, more soft than anything, and Connor’s chilled skin begged for more friction. The hand against his nape drifted up into his hair and Hank’s mouth moved again. Connor hummed, his hand fisting in the fabric of Hank’s jacket. He started to open his mouth, his tongue barely grazing the warm curve of Hank’s.

The heat was suddenly gone, Hank’s face and hand absent, and Connor almost tumbled forward. Hank caught him with a forearm against his chest.

“You are very, very drunk.” Hank’s voice was rough. Something was off about it, but Connor couldn’t place what.

The world tilted and he made a noise of protest in this throat, unable to push himself up once his head was pressed against something soft. Fabric draped against the rest of him, warm, and he struggled to keep his eyes open.

“Hank?” His voice drifted through the living room. Nobody responded. He heard a door shut, a lock click, and then something jingling near the front door.


	2. Ostinato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minor fallout, major opportunities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor is trans and uses various terms in the fic to talk about his body. Please read at your own discretion.

Everything was off.

He woke to nothing, instead of the cheery tone of his alarm. His mouth was dry, tacky, and tasted like garbage. And most obvious of all, he was curled up on the couch, a blanket half-draped over him and starting to pool on the floor.

Connor opened his eyes slowly, squinting. The light was dim here, no windows to tell him what time it was. He reached around for his phone, hand dragging over the carpet and slapping lazily against the coffee table before it found the rubber of his case. He dragged it towards him and pushed the home button. Only dark greeted him. It was dead.

Groaning, he lifted his head and peeked over the arm of the couch towards the kitchenette, looking for the microwave clock. 10:45. He panicked for a moment before remembering it was Saturday and he wasn’t scheduled to meet for rehearsals. He sighed, letting his face hit the cushions, and rested there for a total of five point six seconds before sitting up faster than his stomach agreed with.

How had he gotten home last night? He remembered Quarantine, and drinking with Hank, but after a certain point things were hazy and unclear. He lurched to his feet and stumbled to the front door. His keys were in a pile on the rug and he picked them up, putting them on the hook he’d installed so he wouldn’t misplace them. The door was locked, so maybe he’d just dropped them in his drunken stupor? He must have taken a cab, and gotten up here, and managed to make it to the couch.

Connor drifted to the kitchen, still struggling to remember the time he’d lost between the bar and this morning. He filled a glass with water and drank carefully, letting his stomach settle between sips. He didn’t drink much, partially for lack of time and partially for lack of friends, but he’d had enough hangovers to know to go easy on himself. He returned to the couch, picked up his phone and started toward his bedroom. In the middle of plugging in his phone Connor realized how bad he needed to pee and stumbled toward the bathroom, catching his shoulder on the door frame and sitting on the toilet clutching it, head down as he relieved himself of his liquid sins.

Did Hank get home alright? Connor mused, yawning and washing his hands. He pushed his hair from his forehead with damp fingers and squinted at his reflection. He needed to shave. A haircut would be in order soon. The bags under his eyes were heavier than usual from the exhaustion of the night before and he scowled at them, his eyebrows drawing into a tight knot. He looked a mess, and that wasn’t proper at all. He was supposed to have some dignity, and standing in the clothes from yesterday with rotten breath and mussed hair did not suit him.  
He stretched and padded back into his room, tapping in his lock code and checking his email. A few requests for interns, a notice about his trip to New York in a few months for a residency, but nothing from Hank. Connor flipped to his texts, pressing the thumb of his free hand into the soft flesh under his chin, feeling his throat flex as he swallowed. No new messages, not even from Niles. He scratched at his neck lightly and tapped Hank’s name, typing a message without much thought.

Connor pressed the small blue arrow and set his phone down as the “whoosh” of his message being swept away on the winds of data sounded, yawning. He gently pulled open a drawer and selected a sweater and a pair of sweatpants before opening the drawer above it and pulling out a clean set of underwear. He needed a shower to clear his head, and he needed to rest his hands, and he needed to try to remember last night.

 

-♭-

 

Hank groaned when his phone buzzed on the bedside table, clanging against several empty water glasses in a cruel symphony. He reached out, slapping his hand over the screen and tapping wildly to cut off what he assumed was an alarm. The sound stopped and he let his hand drop limp over the edge of the bed, the air cool compared to the warmth pooled beneath his mess of blankets. Sumo huffed softly at his side, just as bothered and unwilling to do anything about it. Hank smacked his lips, coughing a little and rolling over, his back to the slivers of light clawing around the blinds.

It was Saturday, and he hadn’t been able to fall asleep, so to hell with it. An hour or two more never hurt anyone.

His phone buzzed again, rattling around in the ring of cups like a bug bouncing between porch lights.

“For fucks sake,” he managed, rolling to face the bedside table again and yanked the damn thing off its cord. He had one message and his stomach turned at the name.

_One New Message From ARKAIT_

Hank stared at the notification for a long time, his phone screen dimming several times before he finally got the courage to unlock the damn thing. He typed in his passcode slowly, sighing as the device unlocked and the screen shifted to rows of unused apps, a picture of Cole grinning at the Debate Team championships the year he graduated high school peeking out from behind them. He had a couple messages from his ex-wife asking about FAFSA and student loans for Cole, things they’d talked about on the phone the week before.

He clicked weakly on Connor’s chat, blinking a couple times before he took the words in.

_Thank you for the company last night. Please respond to let me know you’ve made it home safely._

...That was it?

Guilt clawed at Hank’s insides. Connor didn’t remember any of it. Or maybe he did? The word “company” could be a sly little nod to the very, very brief intimacy they’d shared, but the formal style of the thing made him doubt it. Hank couldn’t decide which he preferred.

The moral part of him, the part that was a father and a conductor and volunteered at bake sales, was ashamed that he’d even let the kiss happen. The kisses, actually, he reminded himself, his fingers tightening around his phone as his eyes unfocused, his jaw clenching slightly as he remembered. He’d kissed Connor multiple times, in a state when he shouldn’t have.

But Connor had been the instigator, the nasty old man inside him argued. Connor was the one who wanted to do it. He’d kissed Hank first, pressed his smooth cheek against Hank’s face and rubbed against him like he’d never felt anything better in his life.

He was very, very drunk, said Moral Hank. Connor Arkait had told Hank how lonely he was, how he did not have a lot of time for friends. Being drunk probably brought out the parts of him that craved any contact, regardless of the benefactor, and Hank had been right to walk away.

But what if he was just being honest, groaned Dirty Old Man. What if he had genuinely desperately wanted Hank to kiss him and touch him and do all manner of things to him? What if instead of a lack of judgement Connor had instead a lack of shame? Hank was attracted to him, found his stupid glasses and his judgemental comments charming.

The fact he was having this conversation with himself in any capacity meant that he was right to leave. Giving in to even that minor temptation wasn’t right. The urge to apologize slid into his throat and his esophagus tightened around it. If Connor didn’t remember, that meant Hank would have to explain, and that thought alone chilled him. Dirty old man. Bad, bad dirty old man. If Connor did remember then… Hank hoped he wouldn’t take it personally. They were colleagues, nothing else.

Despite Hank’s quiet, deep wish for something more.

He rubbed his face, flopping over onto his belly and hiding his face in the small gap between two pillows before exhaling loudly into the mattress. He sat there for a few moments, letting his breathing settle, while Sumo sighed heavily at his side.

“You are so lucky you’re not human,” Hank grumbled, sitting up to reply.

-♯-  
The shower did help.

Connor did not make a habit of sleeping in his binder, what with the health risks and all, and peeling himself free from the garment had been refreshing in itself. He could smell the sweat soaked into the fabric from inches away and clicked his tongue, tossing it neatly into the hamper near the sink. The water took a second to warm up so he turned the tap before he continued undressing, grimacing as he stepped out of his pants and underwear, the latter sticking to him slightly as he pushed them down. He squinted at the tell-tale discharge, trying to remember what could have possibly turned him on enough to leave him in this state.

_Big hands. Big, strong hands around his glass._

Connor blinked away the thought, balling up his remaining clothes and tossing them into the hamper with his shirt and binder. He stepped eagerly into the water, shivering off the last of the cold air as warmth enveloped him, his shoulders drooping. He could smell sweat in his hair, released in a cloud by the warm stream, and wrinkled his nose again. He really, really needed to make sure he didn’t overdo it again, especially not in front of someone he respected as much as Hank. Connor reached for the shampoo, lathering it between his palms before threading it into his hair. The blunt edges of his nails felt good against his scalp and he sighed, closing his eyes as hot water pounded against his back and his fingers worked through his hair.

Connor’s fingertips pressed against his nape, and his mind flashed with dim images.

_Big hands. One pressed against his nape. His cheek, warm, his lips, very warm-_

He blinked again, tilting his head up, his hands paused near his shoulders, fingers curved apprehensively. His insides twitched, his dick twinging with heat. The images were smeared, distant, like he was watching them through dirty lenses with the wrong prescription. They weren’t bad, just unfamiliar. From a forgotten, drunken dream, perhaps? The distance made them feel fake, like they were someone else’s. Maybe he’d had a wet dream, had completely forgotten it, and now his desperate body was bringing the images back. He hadn’t been intimate with anyone in a while.

Soap dripped into his left eye and he grunted, tipping his chin up to dip his head into the warm stream. The darkness of his eyelids was comforting once the sting of soap left them, the hiss of the shower calming his nerves. Why was he nervous? He exhaled in a huff, puffing water from his lips, and tilted his head back down, slicking water from his forehead and pushing his hair back. He was being foolish. He wasn’t used to being drunk or hungover, that was all. Perfectly normal. He reached for his washcloth and pumped shower gel into it, pressing it between his hands and rubbing, watching the bubbles form through the fabric.

He tried to remember when he started forgetting things from the night before. He and Hank had talked about so much, eventually drifting into old stories from college. The last thing he remembered was Hank telling him about how they’d managed to steal the football team’s mascot suit. Connor’s mouth jerked up at the side at the thought as he scrubbed himself down. Hank had seemed so proud of himself, his smile sly and genuine, his body angled forward in his chair, speaking to Connor like they were sharing some big secret.

Reaching the spot just below his navel, Connor paused, the washcloth pressed gently against his skin. He watched rivulets of soapy water drip down to his thighs, lifting his free hand to press against the soft skin in the hinge of his hip.

He was warm. He thought about Hank’s smile. Something inside him pulsed. He bit his bottom lip, closing his eyes, brows furrowed.

_You’re touching my hip, Hank._

Connor slid the cloth between his legs and scrubbed gently. There was nothing to do about it, here. His legs always cramped before he came.

 

-♯-

When Connor returned to his room, hair still damp but with an overall greater sense of dignity, his phone greeted him. It chirped politely on its perch and Connor crossed the room quickly, sitting hard on his bed and tapping it open.

_Yeah made it home_

The message was short and left Connor wanting. He wasn’t sure what for, but he chewed absently at his lip, struggling to decide if he ought to reply. He tapped rhythmically against the side of his case, rubbing absently against the rubber with his other thumb.

Gray dots popped up in the bottom corner and he froze. Hank was… writing… more? Their exchanges were usually a few short sentences, a word or two. This was lasting… A while. Long enough for anxiety to tighten in Connor’s throat. His fingers stilled against his phone, squeezing gently. The dots vanished. His stomach dropped. They returned. His stomach flopped.

A block of text slid into the chat window, and Connor swallowed before he read it.

_So. Last night. I walked you home. You were pretty drunk._

Embarrassment hit Connor like a tidal wave. He pressed a palm to his face, reading between his fingers.

_Don’t know if you remember but. We uhhh kissed briefly. Stopped you because you were so out of it. Understand if you don’t want to work with me anymore. Sorry._

Kissed.

K i s s e d.

Connors eyes widened behind his hand. He kissed his director. He kissed his director while drunk. The small amount of dignity he’d regained in the shower sloughed off him like mud in a downpour. He had kissed Hank, after Hank had been so open with him and kind to him. Hank walked him home, and he did something brash and childish like that. He fell back onto his bed, hard, phone landing next to him face down. He pressed his palms to his eyes, sighing as stars appeared behind the lids.

His phone chirped again. It took him at least a minute to lift it to his face and read.

_Not saying it’s your fault or anything. Well. It’s nobody’s fault._

Fault.

Connor squeezed his eyes shut again. His brain was drowning in a stew of bubbling emotions, thoughts tangled like half-cooked noodles lost in the sauce.

He tapped back quickly, trying to be as professional as possible. He was not sure that was still possible.

_Thank you for being honest, Hank. If we can f_

Connor took a breath. He wasn’t sure why it hurt to type the word.

_Thank you for being honest, Hank. If we can forget this and continue working together, I would appreciate that. I also apologize for my brash actions. Forgive me._

He let the hand holding the phone drop to his side, staring blankly at the off-white of his textured ceiling. So the dream had been real. He almost wished he remembered more about it. The smears, the echoes, of Hank’s mouth and face pressing against his were the warmest things he had felt in a while. What if, Connor’s brain whispered, you hadn’t been drunk? You would have kissed him then.

I would not, thought Connor.

He closed his eyes slowly, lips parting as he tried to pull forth the memory of Hank’s beard soft against his cheek.

“I would not,” he breathed. He lied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I was dead, eh?  
> @biocomp9

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on twitter @biocomp9. Thanks for your time!!


End file.
